Legends Never Die
by sloangrey
Summary: You'd think six people with criminal pasts, CIA jobs, and philosophies of 'fast cars and fine women' would know a little bit better than to get themselves involved in international heists and other highly illegal activities. You'd be incredibly wrong. AU.
1. Prologue

**What's this? Another story? Oh god, summon help, we're all in trouble. Hi, I'm Emily and this is yet another lively AU installment from my crazy insane mind. I came up with this idea almost a month ago at like midnight-a tragic time when you're me because you need sleep but just can't-and have just now gotten around to putting it down into words. It's heavily inspired by the wonderful Furious 7, which I saw and needed to write an AU for in order to cope with my feelings. I've got so much planned for this bad boy, and I'm really hoping that you'll enjoy this as much as I just enjoy the idea of it in general. There's going to be quite a deal of Clintasha in this story, so if you're not about that life, exit is thatta way. Anyways, here's the prologue, and enjoy while I go cry over the fact this is the last time I'll know what life was like before I saw Age of Ultron. **

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Prologue: Clint

Fast cars and pretty girls, that was the version of the philosophy that Clint Barton liked to live by. It was the simpler one, anyways, and it was the same one that led him out into the middle of the California desert heat.

Clint was a nomad by nature, always never finding a need to stay in one place for once. He had no home, the way he liked to look at it; 'home' had never had the positive, fuzzy connotation that it did for most people and he hadn't been there in years. Instead, he stayed on his feet, moving around whenever he needed a change of scenery—or had no choice but to seek it out. Sometimes being addicted to an adrenaline rush came with its repercussions.

He'd heard of this little event through some branch on a grapevine; a little strip racing out in the middle of the California desert where it was all girls, cars, and no cops in sight. It was right up Clint's alley, really, and he'd been itching for something to do instead of sit at home for another weekend and eat leftovers in front of the tiny television that only got the basic channels.

What they were calling a grandiose 'race war' was nothing he'd never seen before; this was almost his regular scene aside from the races at stoplights on back roads wherever he could find something. Girls strutting around in skimpy clothing and trying to put on some sort of seductive dance show—most of their moves the unappetizing roll of hips, but Clint was appreciative of their efforts, regardless of the fact it did nothing for him. Races were going on one after the other, the loud cheers mixing in with the sound of whatever music was leaking out of a mass of a speaker somewhere in range. He didn't know how well this was about to go over; the only refreshing thing he'd seen since pulling in was the free Corona he'd gotten his hands on. Ever since, he'd been wandering around, trying to avoid a particularly horny female who needed something to grind on, or a car that was pulling through with no consideration in order to get in line for the next race. Clint had made himself at home near the back of the racing strip, resting up against a truck that was parked there and its owner nowhere in sight. It had all been the same since he'd arrived, race after throng of girls passing by after race after dance after race after impromptu car wash after race. Nothing extraordinary, really. And that was when he saw _her._

She reminded him of strawberry ice cream —maybe it was the heat messing with his mind and the desperate need for another Corona, or maybe it was the pastel pink bikini top that clung to her curves, over the expanse of amount of pale skin that had to be illegal for her to show that much of. She looked _delicious_, he thought to himself, as his tongue ran over the surface of his lower lip. Red curls bouncing as she strode past him, he was unsure of where to put his eyes. There was her face, equally as beautiful as the rest of her, and then there were those long stretches of legs. Clint was a leg kind of man, anyways, and she might as well have been a goddess, he a lowly earth man. He didn't realize how obvious he was making the fact that he was all but drooling over her as she walked by.

"Natasha Romanoff," a voice in his ear said, shaking him from his train of rapidly spiraling thoughts. Turning around, Clint's eyes fell upon some kid, fairly scrawny and looked as though he belonged anywhere else but here. "Wouldn't stare at her too long, she'll make sure you pay for it."

"Punishment coming from a woman like her isn't exactly what I'd consider punishment," Clint smirked, his gaze returning to the sway of the redhead—_Natasha's_-hips.

"You've never been on the other end of her uppercut," the same guy was still behind him, mumbling under his breath. Clint swiveled back in his direction, giving him one of the harshest looks he could muster up. _God, all I want to do is appreciate a fine woman when I see one, and then this fucker just _has_ to come along to crush dreams. Would have left his ass at home._

"And you are?" Clint spat out coolly.

"Bruce Banner," he replied, just as frostily, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. "I'm with her." The newfound respect for this Bruce, whoever he was, went skyrocketing through the roof. If a guy like him could pull a girl like _that_, then there either had to be something incredibly fascinating about him that Clint wasn't just seeing, or Clint really needed to take some serious notes from this guy. He kept an eye on Bruce Banner, taking into account how he watched Natasha go by. The way she sauntered through the throngs of people and the way his eyes weren't trained on any part of her except the back of her head was indication of some sort, that maybe Clint really did need that Corona, on the verge of losing his mind. _Yeah, no way this kid is _with_ her._

"You her cousin or something?" Clint finally asked, his voice gruff as he tried to confirm his theory, rubbing his jaw.

"Cousin? No." The look Bruce gave him entailed that that could have very well been the stupidest assumption to fall from his mouth. "She's just an old college friend of mine."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, I get the feeling it'd be hard to stay friends with a girl like that." Looking back up at Bruce, he met a steely glare, one that meant business. _Okay, note to self, don't make any sort of sexual implications about her when her big, bad protector is around._ "I, uh," he stammered, trying to reroute the conversation. "What brings you out here? No offense, but this really doesn't look like your scene."

"I only come to these things to keep an eye on her," Bruce responded, tilting his head in Natasha's direction. Even in the crowd of girls who all looked the same with the bikini tops and cut off shorts that left little to the imagination, she was still distinguishable—her crown of fire flouncing as she slipped through the masses. Bruce scratched at the top of his head awkwardly. "She uh, well, she tends to get herself into trouble."

"Imagine that," Clint hummed in a sing-song voice, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a smile.

"She's untamable as it is, imagine her behind the wheel." Clint's ears perked up at that, attention snapping to a sighing Bruce. He hadn't even spoken to the girl, and here she was surprising him by the second. A gorgeous woman and a gorgeous car, and here Natasha was, the glorious combination of his desires.

"Behind the _wheel_?" Clint stammered out.

Bruce shrugged. "Yeah, she's a big adrenaline junkie. Loves to put guys like you in their place," he said nonchalantly, and as much as Clint tried not to take any offense from his comment, he couldn't help but to feel as though Bruce was taking such pride in the fact he'd caught him off guard. He continued on with his explanation, resigning himself back to his relatively irritated tone. "I have to come with her to these things because Rogers is sure that she's going to get herself killed one of these days. She's reckless; smart as a fucking whip, but responsibility is a trait she's rather lacking in." It was almost like the comment was written across Clint's face before Bruce quickly jumped back in with, "And don't you even _say_ it."

"Easy there, big guy, just 'cause I think it doesn't mean I'm going to say it. Not around you, the ever-so-frightening bodyguard," he grumbled. He was too busy thinking about what Banner had said about having to keep an eye on her, for some other dude. God, she had a boyfriend. _And right when I thought it was my fucking lucky day._ "So, let me get this straight, she comes down here to race just like the rest of us."

"Unfortunately."

"Then why does she dress like she's getting ready to wave the flag for one?" Before Bruce had his chance to shoot another look, Clint held his hands up in mock arrest. "Look, kid, I've done enough of these to know that there's no fucking way that you can be comfortable with a string bikini on unless you're shaking your ass for a show. Might feel great if it's a hot day like today, but racing? No way."

"Like I said, she does it to make a point. She might look like she's the oasis in the midst of your heat hallucinations, but she'll leave you choking in her dust."

Clint snorted softly, eyes scanning for that already signature sashay of her hips and the curtain of red hair that moved in time with her step in the midst of the crowd. "I'll bet she does."

Shaking Bruce Banner was a fairly easy task, as it only took a few moments and some more exchanged dialogue to find out that he hated the idea of racing and could ramble out a very long list of things he'd rather do than sit at one of these. Clint went in search for another Corona, or so he claimed—Banner apparently also hated the taste of Corona, fucking _daffodil_—which was his perfect opportunity to go find the very redhead that was stuck inside his head. He figured it wouldn't be hard, just look for the only redhead with a banging body and a temper like fire (Bruce's incredibly cliché words).

He found her leaning up against a full blown muscle car, the strings on her pink bikini tied in perfect little bows. She was talking to some brute—obviously the owner of the car, he looked like the kind of guy who would own a Plymouth Barracuda–the sound of her voice distinct over the revving engines preparing to race and the pulsating vibe of music. "You said this was a 1970?" she asked loudly,

"Yeah," the guy said, folding his arms over his chest. "How'd you know?"

She let one shoulder rise and fall casually, red hair tumbling over her back. "I know a thing or two about cars myself."

"So I've heard," Clint found himself saying, approaching her casually. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes sharp as she studied who had intruded in on the conversation. He was rapidly trying to take in every little detail of her without coming off as creepy as he felt he was; up close, she was almost unreal. Quickly running his eyes over her facial features, spending a little more time on those striking green eyes of hers especially, the verdict was that she was impossibly beautiful.

"Uh huh," she said, not fully convinced. Raising an eyebrow quizzically, her lips tugged into a smirk as she spoke. "Who's your source?"

Crossing his arms, he leaned his hip up against the back of the car. "Your little pal, Banner." The initial surprise flickered on her face for only a second before she composed herself. It was clear she hadn't expected him to pull that out of thin air.

"Bruce actually talked to someone?" Natasha let out a spiteful chuckle, swiveling on her heel and resting an arm on the side of the car. It was taking every ounce of willpower and dignity in him to not let his eyes race over her; he knew better than to do so when she was less than a few feet away. "Damn, never thought I'd see the day."

"I happen to be very convincing," Clint informed her. He extended his hand out to her, the smirk still plastered on his face. "I'm Clint."

Natasha eyed his hand warily before shaking it firmly, and a short little shake at that. "I get the feeling you already know who I am."

"Sure do, princess."

She made a face. "Mm, might not want to do that," she warned, her voice light and teasing but the look in her eyes terrifyingly serious. "So, are you planning on enlightening me as to why you're here?"

Clint shook his head, gesturing out towards her with one of his palms face up. "I heard you raced."

"Of course I do; what other reason would I have even come to this?"

"You're dressed for a very different occasion at an event like this, Romanoff."

"I could beat you wearing nothing but a pair of high heels, Clint," she sneered, the way she said his name was almost like an expletive. He could see the twinkle in those green eyes of hers, the sheer joy of the idea of racing and kicking his ass—or, so she thought.

"Is this what I'd call a challenge?"

"It's not a challenge when I know I'm going to win."

"How do you know you're going to win?" Clint fired back, amazed at the confidence she exuded as she fired off at him like this was target practice.

She gave a short laugh, leaning in closer to where he was. "Because," she said, matter-of-factly. "I don't lose."

That was all Clint needed.

The Mustang GT he'd brought out wasn't what he was used to; he hadn't raced in it except for one almost street situation, that was until a cop car came into sight and he had to give up on racing that show off Charger. Pulling up to the makeshift starting line, all he could think of was that determined look in her eyes, how she'd pretty much invited him to propose a challenge. His fingers continued to rap against the steering wheel, waiting on her to make her grand arrival. Somewhere in the crowd, Bruce Banner and his reading glasses was cursing every fiber of Clint's being for dragging her out onto the strip for a race, and Clint couldn't deny that he loved it.

It didn't take long for the Barracuda to slowly roll to a stop next to him, the windows down on both sides. Natasha looked over in his direction, a smirk on her face as she pushed some of the red hair out of her eyes. "You sure about this?" he mouthed in her direction while he had her attention.

She stepped down on the accelerator, the car's engine roaring. Damn, if she wasn't messing with him. "You bet," she replied, winking at him before turning away. She was all business, that was for sure, and Clint was more determined than ever to leave her in the dust.

A girl in a tiny lace bustier and even shorter skirt walked up in front of their cars, making sure the sway of her hips was incredibly obvious to anyone that was watching on with their naked eyes or was looking through binoculars in order to see. She was clutching onto the small scraps of fabric that had to be the flags, and Clint wrapped his fingers around the sides of the wheel again. His foot was itching to stomp on the gas pedal and throw the car into gear, wiping the smile off of that Natasha Romanoff's face. Pointing in Clint's direction, he couldn't hear what the flag girl was yelling but knew it had to do with something about being ready, so he pressed on his accelerator and let the engine do the talking for him. The girl pointed at Natasha, redirecting the same question to her, and Clint glanced over at her. She was staring straight ahead, a terrifyingly stony look on her face as she revved her own engine.

It had never taken so long for a race to start before in his life, it seemed, as the girl took her sweet precious time waving the scraps of cloth over her head round and round tantalizingly. God, he just wanted to step on the gas and go, he had never been so antsy in a race before. Maybe it was the fact he was racing a very beautiful woman who had already proved she could put his ass in place and he surely didn't want her to have anything else to use against him, or maybe it was because every race was taken just as serious as the rest and there was only one thing that he found important: winning. The girl held the flags over her head, Clint knowing exactly what followed after this. Hand hovering over the gear shift, his foot was trembling on the brake pedal waiting to move over and hit the gas as he kept his eyes trained on their flag girl. Making a grand show of it, she bent down—Clint could have sworn he saw inside that bustier, regardless of how tight it was—and brought the flags with her, sweeping through the air and landing by her sides.

Clint hit the gas as hard as he could, snapping the gear into position as the car lurched forward. In the other lane, Natasha had thrown the Barracuda into motion, red hair flying back and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pressing her lips together hard. The strip wasn't a very long one, most people had only gone several hundred feet, so that meant he had less time to get ahead of her and stay there. He tried not to think about the girl in the car next to his and instead focus on going faster than her, making sure she regretted keeping those windows down. They were neck in neck about halfway through, the front end of the Barracuda peeking out a little farther than the Mustang as she desperately tried to press the gas pedal down into the floorboards. Clint kept moving the gear shift, his engine roaring as he slowly started to get the distance on her. He could see where the finish line was, wind blowing in his eyes as he sped through and prayed to God Natasha was still in her place in the rearview mirror. Like all good things did, that came to a rapid end as she moved the Barracuda's gear one last time and got that last little kick of speed she needed to send her over the edge. "Fuck," he hissed under his breath not-so-quietly, as she and her red hair pulled up next to him, and then were in front of him by only a few inches. It was too late to do anything, because right as he was about to retaliate, the front of the Barracuda was zipping over what they were marking the finish line.

They kept on going through, out away from the masses of people watching, before they pulled to a stop. Clint leaned back in his seat, staring ahead at the car that was a few feet in front of his. It took a few moments for him to catch his breath, heart pumping violently as the adrenaline surged through his bloodstream. His thoughts, however, were perfectly on time, as he stared at the license plate. _She actually just beat me. _

The driver's door opened, a long bare leg throwing itself out of the car before the rest of Natasha pulled herself out and up. God, she was rubbing this in as deep as she could go, and the both of them knew it. Looking over her shoulder, she shot him what had to be the most mocking smirk, the pride scribbled all over her face. He followed in pursuit, stepping out of his Mustang and shutting the door behind him as he approached her.

Feigning confusion, she tilted her head to the side and pretended to ponder something. "Now, if I remember correctly, I think you were the one who asked if _I_ was sure about going through with this—"

"Shut up," Clint groaned, tilting his head back. Natasha laughed again; a sound that Clint had already grown all too accustomed with over knowing her for all of five minutes.

"I'm sorry, I just thought that you were expecting for me to choke on the smoke from your tailpipe?"

"Damn, you're the definition of a sore winner," he grumbled.

Running a hand back through the mane of red hair, Natasha's lips pursed into that natural smirk of hers. "Hey, I'm not going to lie and say that you're a bad driver, you're not too bad. You're the first real competitor I've had in years." The sense of accomplishment that surged through him was childish, but he felt accomplished nonetheless at her somewhat compliment. Clint had his thanks on the tip of his tongue, right before she cut in with, "I'm just better." It faded into oblivion just as fast as it had formulated.

"Now I know why Banner likes to lose track of you. You're a pain in the ass, Romanoff."

"Call me Natasha," she said, the tone of her voice changing from that bantering one to a more serious note. "My friends call me Natasha."

One of Clint's eyebrows lifted, as he gave her a puzzled glance. "I didn't realize we were friends."

Her left shoulder rose and fell quickly, tilting her head to the side as the wave of red tumbled down that side of her arm. "Maybe not right this moment," she started, her voice a whimsical mumble that was just barely over the commotion back down through the strip. "But I get the feeling you'll have a damn hard time shaking me from your head." Clint knew all of two things: she was a fucking tease, and she was just as right as she'd been about everything else.

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**I really hope that you all enjoyed this, I find it miraculous that I'm able to upload this on a Thursday period. Like I said, this was just a prologue so obviously there is so much more to come, along with the actual plot for this (yes, there is one of those on the way, shocker, I know!). Be sure to leave a review on your way out, and next time you read this, listen to the Furious 7 soundtrack for ultimate feels. Except for See You Again. I don't want for you to cry on me just yet.**


	2. The Five Thousand Dollar Word

**This has taken absolutely forever, but I hope the fact it's almost 8,000 words will make up for the fact. Life has been absolute insanity, what with the remainder of school and then pretty much living out of a suitcase on back to back vacations with no wifi (how grand), but I'm back now. And trust me, the moment I started writing I looked at some of the dialogue and wondered why the hell I ever spent so much time letting this grow any dust. So yes, I hope you enjoy this monstrosity of a first chapter.**

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Chapter One: The Five-Thousand Dollar Word

Wednesdays were usually a slow day at the garage where Clint worked; his typical services either walk-in oil changes or the continuation of a more serious repair. It had been a particularly slow _week_; hell, it had felt like the past several weeks had been slow, but that might have had to do with the fact that there had been little excitement on the other side of his life. Instead of an adrenaline rush, he was enduring a heat wave underneath the

"Yo, Barton!" Craning his neck downwards, he could see a pair of blackened sneakers standing next to the car that he was working underneath. Probably one of the other guys that worked here, who probably needed some kind of assistance. He swore that he was the only person in this place who had any sort of competence, as well as the extensive experience with cars.

"Kinda busy," Clint replied, removing the wrench he'd had resting between his teeth.

The owner of the shoes chuckled. "You got yourself a visitor," he said. Still wasn't enough to sway Clint.

"Tell 'em what I just told you."

"Yeah, and then I'll tell her that I'll be glad to occupy her time instead." Clint's ears perked up, and with a small kick off the ground, he jetted out from underneath the car.

"Like hell you will," he growled. He knew exactly who the guy—who had turned out to be Ace—was referring to, seeing as how there was only one female in his life who knew when and where he worked. He pulled himself off of the board, fetching the rag from his back pocket and wiping off his hands. "You ain't hitting on her any time soon. She'd probably kill you and let me use your bones as tools, seeing as how you're already one yourself."

Ace pretended to pout. "Sorry, Barton; did I hurt your feelings, hitting on your girlfriend?"

"She ain't my girlfriend," Clint grumbled, making his way towards the door to the office with Ace still on his heels.

"Then why are you so protective?"

Clint spun around, one of his eyebrows arched. "Why are you acting like you ain't got a job to do?" For a moment, it was silent between him and the now slightly stunned Ace, up until Clint broke character and cracked a smile. The two of them shared a laugh, Clint tucking the rag back into his pockets. "Wish me luck, maybe this time she's just here because she missed me."

"In your dreams, Barton," Ace sang from behind him as Clint pushed open the door to the office and let the cool air hit him in the face. It didn't take long for him to pinpoint the very person Ace had been talking about; wasn't like she was impossible to miss. She was the only thing worth looking at; there, standing at the counter and her eyes fixed on something on the opposite wall. That was, until Natasha caught sight of him.

She was a sight for his sore eyes, in that green dress that made her eyes pop, red hair pulled back neatly in a ponytail and the little gold earrings dangling down, their purpose to hypnotize him, or so he thought. Natasha looked perfect as usual, Clint however an entirely different story. The black tank he was wearing was drenched with sweat, grease stains covering his jeans and his fingernails black from oil. He was just a plain sight, and somehow he'd managed to draw her from her work and get her leaning up against the service counter, those green eyes of hers wide and set dead on him. The smirk played at the corner of her lips as he strolled over to where she was, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Hey gorgeous," he grinned, and she rolled her eyes.

"It's never going to happen, Barton," she informed him matter-of-factly, like she always did whenever he so much as opened his mouth, even if it was to compliment her. His face fell, scowling at her response.

"I could be your soulmate, Nat, but you wouldn't know because you're so goddamn close-minded."

"If you're my soulmate, I think I'd just prefer to not have a mind at all."

Clint grinned, knowing that somewhere behind that steely exterior she was melting. That was how Natasha operated; a little thing or two he'd learned over the years of being a key figure in her life–or at least, a key figure in his own eyes. "Seeing as how you wouldn't waste your time coming all the way down here to tell me that, wanna enlighten me on what really brings you around?"

Natasha smirked, chuckling to herself. "Steve called, said that tonight was Cookout Wednesday," she informed him.

"This isn't going to be like last time we had a cookout, is it? Because, I'd never tell Bruce to his face, but he couldn't grill if the fate of the world depended on it. Not to mention that veggie burgers are not exactly the family favorite." His face scrunched up at the memory.

"Fear not, Thor claims he has full and total control of the fiery beast," Natasha mocked in a deeper voice, an obvious jab at Thor's proper speech and the homage paid towards his one-trick Shakespeare pony that the entire gang had discovered and never let him live down.

He watched as her green eyes flitted around the office, probably to make sure they were alone, his clue that this was a bit more than just a stop on her route home from work to inform him of where his dinner was coming from that night. Natasha leaned in a little closer to Clint, arms flat down on the counter as she said quietly, "Tony caught wind of a race tonight, figured you were getting a little too rusty and you might like to put the Charger back into gear."

Clint snorted, his head inching further in her direction. "Please, sweetheart, the only thing that's rusty around here is the cars I work on." He winked, and that ended the serious note of their conversation.

"You're on drink duty," she informed him, resuming her regular stance behind the counter and smoothing out her skirt. "And I'm in the mood for something strong."

He grinned devilishly. "Want to get your ass left in the dust tonight? You'll be enjoying yourself a glass of water with lemon," he said. "Like Steve would let you behind the wheel after you've got something hard in your system."

"Steve's not my keeper."

"Steve's also a hell of a lot tougher than you. Can't say no to that all-American Girl Scout cookie," Clint mused.

Natasha scoffed, pursing her lips. "Oh yeah? Watch me."

"Don't worry, princess, you know I will be."

She rolled her eyes in response, shaking her head and the red ponytail swishing from side to side. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying to be your friend; you're such a frat boy, Clinton."

"It's because you love me; we've been over this, _Natty_." Clint's eyes were twinkling mischievously as he continued talking. "Regular time?" he asked.

Natasha nodded. "Tony says if you park in his grass one more time, he's going to make you pay the bill for the lawn maintenance to repair it," she warned playfully.

"Tell Tony to get a bigger fucking driveway," Clint grumbled.

"Who do I look like, the mailman? Tell him yourself." Natasha took a step away from the counter, turning around in the direction of the door. "See you later, Barton," she said dryly, waving over her shoulder.

"Wear a bikini tonight, baby, give me something to look at!" Clint called after her, his eyes falling down to the sway of her hips as she made her way out. Even after the years of a strictly platonic relationship and endless teasing that being her best friend implied, he couldn't deny that Natasha was still as appealing to him as she'd been that day in the desert. Hell, if the day ever came when he didn't find Nat appealing, he knew he was sick. Very, _very_ sick at that.

"Maybe in your dreams, soulmate!" The bell over the door jingled as she pushed it open, and just like some sort of storm, she was gone as quick as she'd come.

**. . .**

Tony Stark's driveway was already full by the time he arrived, and it took everything in Clint not to take the easy way out and swerve up into the grass.

That day when he'd met Natasha in the desert, she'd come with a lot more baggage than he'd anticipated—four other male friends, one of whom was Bruce and if Bruce had been any indication, he'd been totally unprepared for the others. She'd claimed that he'd be a nice fit into their little band of misfits, and unfortunately, like _everything_ else, she had been right.

He'd gone in order of his Nerve scale—one being the quickest to warm up to, and a ten being someone he was still trying to get used to. Bruce was a solid five, as he still got under Clint's skin, but he was nowhere near as bad as some of the others. Steve Rogers, the other name he'd heard that day at the desert race, was a three. He was just as reserved as Banner—bit stiffer, but he was definitely a lot bolder when it came to the rest of the group, especially Natasha. The two of them were almost always bickering about something, to which Clint got a real kick out of—if it wasn't him, it was usually hilarious. Steve was still pretty decent though, and probably one of the only guys Clint could tolerate most of the time.

Thor Odinson had earned himself a four-point-five, mostly due to the fact he was hardly ever around and whenever they were graced with his presence. His job kept him pretty occupied, doing whatever important tasks the distant branch of the CIA had him doing, making copies or fetching coffee. Whenever he was around though, he was more up to Clint's usual standards when looking for appropriate company to keep. Being so close to himself also meant that Thor tended to irritate him a little bit more than Steve, but it was all in good fun.

And then there was Tony Stark, who stood at a grand twelve. Tony Stark was probably the most aggravating human being out of the bunch, what with that cocky attitude, big head and a mouth that matched. Tony's ego was probably the size of a small country in Europe, and when Natasha had warned him about just how Tony really was in person, Clint hadn't taken her that seriously. But she had been right, of course, like she typically was, and Tony had been just as infuriating as promised. Granted, he had his moments, but they were pretty widespread across the board. For the most part, Tony was the provider of a rapid-fire argument, and if it wasn't with Clint himself, it was with one of the others.

What had _really_ drawn Clint to the bunch wasn't their charming personalities, but their after-hours. Natasha had informed them of how they formed something like a little band of misfits who all ran around and got a real kick out of street racing, a small fact that had given Clint a giddy feeling and a shit-eating grin to match. They had all put their fair share of time in, and generally craved the feeling of freedom that came with being behind the wheel. It was how they all connected, despite the insane differences among them; the power behind the wheel and the love for the feel of any sort of rush associated with street racing. Tony, who was a pretty gifted mechanic and technician, was the one who did all of the work on their cars and had tweaked them to perfection. He was more useful in the behind the scenes as opposed to center stage. Thor was one of the most aggressive drivers Clint had seen in his life, and what had come as a total surprise to him was that Bruce was even _more_ dangerous behind the wheel, seeing as how whenever he participated was when he was beyond enraged. If he didn't win the race, then he made sure the other person was incapable of finishing.

Steve was a bit of a different story. He'd had just as much of a racing career as any of them, but it had all come to a screeching halt to him after his then-girlfriend had been killed in a car accident. Natasha had explained that it put Steve in a real mood for awhile after the wreck, leaving him all but turned off to the idea of racing. He was the type who blamed himself, even if it had nothing to do with him, and she'd said that participating in the same sort of behavior that had killed her made him feel like he was causing her to do back flips in her grave. Instead, he was more apt to call the shots; find the races for them, be their personal cheerleader if necessary, but Clint had rarely seen him behind the wheel in a race before. It explained why he was always trying to keep an eye on Natasha, who was probably the most reckless out of the bunch. She had a real knack for attracting danger and not batting an eye.

As he stepped out of the car, he could hear the faint stream of rock radio playing from the backyard, more than likely Tony's touch. No one else had a real love for Black Sabbath like Tony did. Clint grabbed the case of beer that he'd picked up from a convenience store on the way and nudged the door shut with his kneecap.

Everyone was already sprawled out in their respective places in the backyard when he came through the fence; Thor was behind the grill, Tony hovering over his shoulder as per usual and making sure it was all done properly, even though he'd probably never used that grill once himself. Steve, Natasha, and Bruce were all sitting around the pool; Bruce with his feet in the deep end, Natasha on the swing with her feet up, and Steve underneath the shade of the umbrella attached to one of the tables. "Beer's here!" Clint called out, holding up the case and smiling.

"Thank _God,_ whatever Tony's got tastes like dishwater," Natasha sighed in relief, kicking her legs off of the swing and letting her feet touch the ground. Tony grimaced, looking away from Thor's grilling to shoot her a look.

"Romanoff, for all you know I could have given you dishwater."

Natasha beamed. "No, I know you didn't, because you don't want to die just quite yet." Clint sat the case down on top of the glass table, brushing past Nat on her way to the drinks. Their shoulders bumped against each other, almost like she'd done it on purpose, and he had to swallow down the grin threatening to spread across his face. No need to give her a reason to taunt him, another reason among the many she already had listed. She hadn't worn that bikini like he'd teasingly asked for, but she'd worn something almost as revealing; a pair of shorts that hardly left much to his wild imagination and a shirt that she must have only paid half-price for, seeing as how only half the fabric was present and stopped somewhere above her bellybutton—things that laughed at him right in his face without her having to open her mouth.

He had planned on sitting next to her on the swing, but of course, she had beaten him back and had thrown up those tantalizing legs of hers, and wasn't showing any sign of moving them, even if the President wanted a seat next to her. She must have caught on to his intentions, smirking up at him as she tossed the red hair out of her face. Clint substituted the spot next to her with one of the chairs that belonged underneath the table, sliding it next to the rails of the garden swing, a few feet away from the pillow supporting Natasha's head.

"So, what's tonight's event entail?" Clint asked in attempt to stir up some conversation, leaning back in his chair and resting one of his ankles atop the other knee.

"Not your usual race, it's more something like a competition," Natasha explained, taking a swig of her beer.

"Competition?"

"Yeah, course starts underneath the bridge and wraps around half the outskirts of town." Bruce had broken his silence, piping in on the discussion. One of Clint's eyebrows arched.

"Seem to have done your research, Banner, you racing tonight?"

Bruce shrugged, both of his hands out and palms facing upward. "Haven't seen, ah, any reason to."

From behind Thor's shoulder, Tony laughed. "Once you get out there and hear the trash talking, Brucie, I have no doubt we could get you behind the wheel."

"Like we want to unleash the beast."

Tony held up his bottle, confused look scribbled over his face. "Um, yes we do, if there's money on the line. We want to unleash every beast, every last beast we have."

"Oh, so there's money on the line," Clint nodded understandingly. "No wonder Tony's as skittish as he is."

"Skittish? I am not _skittish_. Besides, the fact we are entrusting five thousand dollars with one of you geniuses is enough to terrify anyone, it's like a horror story you'd tell at a campfire."

Natasha rolled her eyes, crossing her ankles. "Tony, you're an idiot."

"I'm ambitious, there's a difference."

"Fine, you're an _ambitious_ idiot."

"Idiot all the same," Steve concluded. "You act like we've never done this before."

"Yeah, Stark; a competition race is bland compared to half the dumb shit we've gotten ourselves into," Natasha chimed in.

Clint peered past an already puffing-up Tony, getting a quick glimpse of Thor. "Pretty quiet over there, Shakespeare, you must not be unleashing the Hammer." The Hammer was the group's nickname for Thor's massive, almost military grade car that nothing had withstood a hit from. Even without a defensive and aggressive driver behind the wheel, it was a downright monster. Put someone like Thor, a danger-junkie like Natasha, or a downright explosive like Banner behind the wheel and the race was already won before it started.

Thor shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the steaks long enough to look back at Clint. "I fear not; this is merely a small break before I am required to return for a later night shift."

"Which is good news for us," Tony interjected. "Means I can operate from the safe confinements of Thor's office."

Steve shrugged. "Assuming no one's in there to see you illegally hacking into the street cameras and calling out directions to ensure we win."

"Hey, kid, you like money or do you like being a loser?"

"I'd like my steak medium rare, if that's okay," Natasha said, lifting her hand in a joking manner.

The beautiful—and rather deceitful part of how they operated—were the small little radio communication links that Tony had set up for the whole gang when they started racing together or working on different assignments that often required their expertise when it came to breaking the speed limit laws. Tony usually operated from Thor's offices and called shots when he wasn't on the ground with them, and if he couldn't work from an office, he found a way to get them a bird's eye view. The fact that they played a little dirty was inviting to Clint, who was always up for bending the rules where he saw possible.

Clint had to assume that from anywhere else in the neighborhood, they looked like a small group of friends, maybe from college, who had all gotten together for steaks and to sit around for small talk including the weather and something dumb that had happened in the office over the past few work weeks. They seemed pretty normal from a distance, nothing that would draw any sort of suspicion anyways. He probably would have thought that had he not been on the other side of Tony's fence, sitting there and talking about street races they'd gotten into in the past as well as other mishaps. Mishaps that were a bit more dangerous than going over the speeding limit. They all had their pasts, all had ledgers in different shades, and it made for quite the handful of interesting escapades over the years.

The group departed in four different cars from Tony's, making their way to a gas station that was only a few blocks away from the bridge where the race was being held. They usually met up somewhere where having several cars and switching rides would have made sense; gas wasn't necessary, as Tony kept them well-fueled at all times. Parking their cars in the lots on the outer limits of the gas station, they all strolled out and began to make arrangements.

Steve had his arms crossed, leaning up against his four by four truck, taking a quick sweeping glance over them. "Alright, so it's a pretty good distance, probably a ten or fifteen mile race at the least. Not to mention the route cuts through just about every night patrol in the area, which is a pretty clever twist," he explained.

Tony scoffed. "Cops? Steve, you act like we have reason to be afraid of the cops; we have a _government agent_ playing on our team. Screw cops."

"Ah, well don't act surprised when you see several blue lights appear on your little hacked cameras."

There was a small pause in the conversation, as they all exchanged looks. It was a matter of deciding who was going to race now, someone who definitely didn't have any issue with law enforcement. Clint was almost waiting on them to ask the question to the one person that he knew would look at the roadblock like it was a power up. "Nat, you racing?" Tony asked, tossing the keys to the Challenger at her. She caught them with one hand, a sinful smirk already plastered on her face.

"Hell yeah."

Tony looked around among the small group of them standing there, hands on his hips. "Anyone else going with her and pretending not to know her?"

Bruce snorted. "Well, that means Clint's out of the equation—"

"Just for saying that, I _nominate_ Banner," Clint fired back derisively. Bruce's face twisted into a scowl, to which Clint gladly returned. "I'm going; according to Tony, my skills are 'rusty.'" He lifted his hands, making air quotations around the word, and Tony chuckled in response.

"I speak the truth and nothing but."

"You speak a whole lot of something, I just don't know if it's the truth."

Clint twirled his key ring around his index finger, Tony clapping his hands as if to call them to order. "Well, Big Guy over here and I are off to work," he said, giving an over exaggerated wink to which most everyone rolled their eyes at. "Win us that money, Clintasha."

"Why do you _call _us that?" Natasha groaned.

"Would you rather I call you Mrs. Barton?"

"I'd rather you scurry along and turn those comm links on before I feel the need to hop in the car and give you a little nudge in the right direction."

Tony made a face, pretending to mimic her as he walked by. "You sure do like them feisty, don't you, Barton?" he whispered, leaning in Clint's direction on his way out. Clint kept a stony look on his face, giving a small snort in response.

The two of them went off in their separate directions to where their cars were parked, Steve and Bruce finding their way to a spot where spectators had gathered. Their positions were strategic; they couldn't appear to know each other once they'd made it to the bridge, as team efforts in these sorts of races were frowned upon. Of course, the fact there was a restraint on it was more than enough reason for their team to chase after it. More than one guy on the course meant the odds were stacked just a little higher in their favor. Natasha, in the Challenger, was to head off first, and Clint follow after a few moments later to keep anyone from gathering suspicion. There was always some method to the madness, he assumed, drumming his fingers on the wheel and waiting for his mental cue to start up.

After the moments had passed, he started up his car and made his way to the mouth of the bridge. Clint pulled up beside Natasha, glancing at her through his open window. As long as one of them won, they were guaranteed that five thousand bucks and of course, the even more satisfying bragging rights in front of these clowns. She looked over at him for a quick second, one of her eyebrows arched and that wild look in her eyes. It was her usual racing expression, one that he was all too familiar with by now. He smirked at her, lowering his foot down on the accelerator and his engine growling as a result. They were a dangerous team, he and Natasha. _Five thousand dollars is in the bag._

They had seven other competitors scattered around them at their starting point, and Clint tried to size them up from where he was sitting behind the wheel. That was one small disadvantage of having their usual team powwows before heading towards the start line; they typically didn't have the chance to look at the people they were racing against. He could spot another Challenger, a Shelby GT, and a gorgeous showoff Jaguar that had pulled up right behind Natasha. Most people heard about these things through the grapevine, and there was always a specific starting time to guarantee any sort of spot in the race—tonight's was eighty-forty, which was about ten minutes out.

There was a small buzz in his ear, and then Tony's voice flooded in like a dam had broken. "Lady and gents, you're listening to radio station S-T-R-K," he crooned in a voice several octaves lower than his own, an evident mock. "Playing you all the songs to make sure we leave this place winners—and five thousand dollars richer tonight."

"Jesus, Stark, did you teleport back to Thor's?" Steve's voice was a crackle in response, taking the words right from Clint.

"It's called I know how to work my magic from behind the wheel, Steven. Something I'm hoping the two idiots on the front line know how to do as well and will make sure they end up on the front line."

"Bashing me isn't going to make me go any faster," Natasha reminded him.

"Hopefully your competitive nature will."

Clint snorted. "If it didn't, then we'd probably need to swing by a hospital once I won."

"Who says you're going to win?" Natasha was clearly amused by his statement, addressing him directly.

"Same person who's telling you that you're going to lose."

"Last time we had this conversation, I clearly remember kicking your sorry ass."

"Hey, Romanoff, Barton, instead of trash talking the _other person_, why don't you two, oh I don't know, preoccupy yourself with beating the _actual competition_," Tony advised in a dry voice. Clint rolled his eyes, as Natasha voiced his thoughts.

"Not seeing much competition here, Stark."

"I hope you're seeing a lot, Stark," Clint added.

"This just in," Steve interrupted. "Five thousand's in cash."

"I'm seeing something, Barton," Tony said smugly. "And it's little dollar signs."

The clock on the dash read eight-thirty-eight, which meant that at any moment, they'd get a caller girl out there to wave the flags, or at least, wave her hands and signal the beginning of the race. Tonight's choice was a petite blonde in a leather jacket, a devil smirk wiped over her crimson lips. Clint's fingers reflexively wrapped and unwrapped around the wheel in anticipation, his eyes glued to the arms she had held high above her head. Cars behind him were revving their engines, another attempt to show off, and his foot pressed down on the accelerator to prove his point just like the others. One hand hovered over the gear shift, the other wrapped around the wheel as she circled her hands, watching the shape of her lips as she spoke. Not like he would have heard her when she said go, but the universal swipe downwards of both hands was all the invite he needed to lay off the break, throw the gear shift into action and step on the gas.

Wind blowing through the rolled-down windows, he sped off into the night, several feet behind Natasha and the GT. It didn't take much to pass the GT, only a few moments into the race and down the first turn was Clint able to cut him off. "Alright guys, we're online for the whole circuit," Tony announced into the comms.

"We got the first two places," Clint informed, and an amused chuckle came from one of the other lines.

"And look at who's in second," Natasha purred.

For emphasis, Clint moved the shift up one level and sped up so his front in was nearing her back tires. "Don't get too cocky, sweetheart."

"Don't talk dirty over the comm line, other people have to listen to this thing," Tony whined.

Things started to pick up along the way, more turns and more narrow misses with the cops. Having the course on the outskirts of town meant there were a lot more things to keep eyes peeled for, and the close proximity of almost all the cars made it a bit more interesting. There wasn't an outlier in this race; clearly, five thousand bucks was enough to make anyone push their limits and make it to first. With every gear shift or quick swerve to cut a car off, Clint could feel his heart skip a beat, only to pound a little extra harder in his chest. Adrenaline was _surging_ through him; this was what he lived for.

The race made its way to about halfway through, and both Clint and Natasha had taken to the front of the pack. Being ahead of him in the starting lineup meant that Natasha was several feet ahead of him, and one of the formations they'd chosen to take on required Natasha in one lane, Clint in the other behind her that left little room for anyone behind them to pass to the front. Things had gotten way more cutthroat, the tension growing the closer they got to that finish line. Every time that Clint glanced over to see if Natasha was any farther ahead, he saw the exact same sight: that Jaguar that had been flying its own kite back there at the bridge, tailing closer and closer to her. At first, he assumed that it was the car trying to get ahead of her, so he slowed a little in order to see if the car would go around the defensive block they'd set up. To his surprise, the car stayed right on Natasha.

"Nat, you got someone on your ass!" Clint yelled into the radio.

"Yeah, you don't think I don't see that?" she snapped, grinding her teeth down.

"What you waiting for, the Queen to call? Shake him!"

"Again, _trying_ here!" Natasha glanced up in the mirror, and sure enough, the Jaguar was right there on her bumper. Her jaw setting, she lowered her foot on the gas a little farther and the engine roared. She was picking up speed, but the Jag behind her seemed to get the same idea and sped up just a little bit. Craning her neck, she tried to get a closer look at the driver through her mirror, but he inched a little closer to her and Natasha could almost feel his front end pushing her car forward. She threw the shift down into the next gear and stomped on the clutch, swerving over to the far side of the road, and he followed right along. That was when it clicked in her head.

"Uh guys, we got a problem!"

"Stark's the victim of a receding hairline?"

"Barton, you know I'm on this line too, right?" Tony complained, his voice lowering after a half-beat of silence. "Seriously though, is that right? Is my hairline receding?"

"_Not_ important!" Natasha barked, interrupting the banter between Tony and Clint. "I think I'm about to be the victim of this asshole trying to run me off the damn road."

"What, you think he's trying to sabotage the race?"

"I don't fucking know, probably; I can't shake him," she said.

"Go off course," Tony ordered. "Barton's still in the race, we still stand a chance. There should be a road a couple hundred feet from you, Nat, turn and see if you shake him there."

"On it!" She saw the turn up ahead, speeding up and cutting the wheel sharply once she was right there at the break in the road. Clint flew past her, and she chuckled to herself. "Think you can win this one for us, Barton?"

He snorted. "Ye of little faith, Romanoff."

The road she'd turned down was dimly lit, even more so than the main road for the race. She could hear the whizzing of the rest of the cars in the race zipping past where she'd turn, hot on Clint's trail in pursuit of the finish line. The race seemed to have been the main factor in why the Jag had been tailing her so closely; _the things people will do for glory nowadays._ She was alone, zipping down the road, and now her main concern was finding a turn to get her back on the track. Sure, Clint could probably hold up for the rest of the race, but she wasn't going to just leave anything up to chance if she could help it.

"I think I lost–" Natasha was cut off by the glare of headlights from behind her, and she swore. "Fuck, he's back." _Right when I thought I'd shaken him, too_.

"So he's definitely not trying to improve his chances of winning, at least one theory has been debunked."

Natasha blinked a few times, trying to process what had just come through the line. "What the…Tony, I don't fucking _care_ about your Nancy Drew hypotheses, just get this jackass off of my tail!"

"I'm not a _fairy_, Natasha, I can't wave my magic wand and make the car vanish!"

"You can try!"

"Just…just try and fishtail, swerve around until you can shake him!" She sped up until she knew she was at the brink of switching gears, releasing the clutch only barely before she shifted and felt the lurch of speed pull her forward. The Jaguar was still right there on her tail, just like it had been. Taking Tony's advice, she began to drift far to the left of the road, before swerving towards the right. It didn't take long for her shadow to follow, mimicking her motions almost perfectly. Pushing some of her hair behind her ear, she watched the speedometer climb towards one fifteen. Her eyes didn't make it to one fifteen before things took an interesting turn.

There was a loud pop from behind Natasha, and red hair whipped around in her face as she looked over her shoulder to see where the noise had come from. She couldn't see anything but the glare of headlights coming in through the back windshield, and the noise was a ghost there in the night air. Clint's voice, however, was unmistakable in her ear. "What the _hell_ was that?"

Natasha, however, was a bit preoccupied, both hands on the wheel and her teeth grinding down to the gum as she tried to dodge the car behind her. "Really?" she growled under her breath, before raising her voice as she yelled into the comm, "Um, I think this is his way of saying we're bringing out the big guns!"

"Figuratively or literally?" Tony asked, slightly baffled.

"Does it matter?"

No sooner had the words left her mouth was she drowned out by the sound of three repetitive pops, back-to-back-to-back. She tried not to yelp as one of the shots found its way through the back windshield and cracked it, Natasha biting down on her lip. Not only was the guy proving impossible to shake, he was also trying to kill her. He sped up, engine roaring as he grew closer towards the back end of her car. The sound in her ear was agitating her even more as the comm line went crazy with different shouts and swears, so Natasha did the only logical thing that any one person could do under pressure. Cutting the line, she yanked it out of her ear and let it dangle on her neck as she desperately tried to weave out of the Jag's beeline.

The finish line was in sight, but the only thing on Clint's mind was the sound of gunshots, echoing louder and louder. Tony was going mad, trying to get coordinates out of Natasha to see if he could hack a street camera close to her, Steve was going mad trying to find out what the hell was even going on, and Clint felt like he was going mad just listening to all of it and trying to get Natasha to respond.

"Nat? Nat!" His hand came down hard on the wheel out of frustration. He could see the finish line up ahead, several hundred feet away, and his next decision was one made in a split second. Clint veered over to the far side of the road, swinging the wheel around hard the closer he got. The front end of his car passed over the finish line as he screeched his way through a U-turn, turning around and jetting off in the opposite direction.

"Wha…_what the hell did you do that for_?" Tony all but screamed into the line. "You won, asshat, why did you turn around?"

"You heard that gunshot from Nat's link; I'm going back there and putting an end to it!"

"My five thousand dollars," Tony whimpered.

"_Fuck_ the five thousand dollars, Nat's in trouble," Clint snapped. "Find me a shortcut back to the road she was on. Wherever we last had her."

"Um…okay, hang on." The sounds of Tony's fingers rapidly moving over the keyboard were hard to hear as Clint sped on aimlessly, willing to backtrack if necessary. "Okay, okay, I got something! There should be a turn up ahead, you want to take that and as soon as you're turned, take a left, it should end up back on the road I sent her down," he instructed.

"Already on it!" Clint was veering around the turn, headlights on and swerving like a maniac to make the next left. The only thing on his mind was Natasha and those gun shots. Damn her for being the most reckless person he knew; hell, she was probably encouraging the monkey behind her to keep on shooting until he got a hit.

For a moment, his eyes glanced over at the glove box, where he kept his own choice of firearm nicely tucked away behind registration papers and napkins he'd collected from drive thru windows over the years. The rest of the group would probably kill him with it if they knew he had the thing on them (for people who liked to play dirty they sure were strong advocates of the whole non-lethal approach and policy) much less the fact he was considering pulling it out now for defense. The defense claim was probably Clint's favorite, and now it couldn't be refuted no matter which way you looked at it. Maniac on the loose, hunting Nat like it was a sport; he'd almost be stupid _not_ to pull it out. And then he thought of Natasha's dirty look and the immense amount of shit thrown his way if he did.

_Nope, not worth the ear ache._

He turned his eyes back to the road, looking for any sign of headlights or the sound of a car's engine that didn't belong to him. Clint could hear something that wasn't too far from where he was, pushing a calm eighty-three since he didn't want to end up being the deer in Nat's headlights and get plowed head on. "Alright, nothing so far," he said into his comm. "I—"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did he see a pair of headlights come charging his way, growing closer and closer by the second. "Got her!" he yelled.

Natasha was swerving manically, trying to shake the other car, and she caught sight of a new pair of headlights in her path. _Clint._ As glad as she was to see him, she was mentally cursing his existence for back-tracking and coming to find her. She was having enough trouble shaking one car, and there was no getting rid of Clint now that he was here. She had an idea though, one that would probably kill all of them if it went wrong. Making a quick decision, she veered back to the right, Clint barreling down the other side of the road and leaving the Jag with nowhere to go. She watched as the car quickly turned to the left, disappearing, and she didn't have long to smirk satisfactorily before she had to swerve herself to miss Clint just barely. He pulled over to the other side of the road, putting his car in park and jumping out quickly to see if he could catch a glimpse of the bastard's face.

Of course, by the time he'd gotten out, the Jaguar was abandoned. "Fucking _fantastic_," he muttered under his breath. The sound of Natasha's car being turned off alerted him, and he whipped his head in her direction. "You okay?"

"My knight in shining armor," Natasha grumbled facetiously, stepping out of her car and slamming the door shut. Clint held his hands up in mock arrest, confused as to why she was acting the way she was. For god's sake, he was the one who'd just made sure she wasn't road kill; it was like he'd pulled out the gun himself and waved it in her face the way she was going about.

"Hey, I could have left you for dead."

"I can handle myself, _Clinton_," she snapped, to which Clint chuckled bitterly at.

"Oh yeah, that explains your many near death experiences and your incredibly reckless–"

"Alright, children," Tony sang, interrupting their banter in an attempt to prevent them from going at each other's throats. "Let's not focus on each other, but rather the maniac that thought it would be fun to try and kill Natasha."

The Jaguar was sitting on the side of the road in a ditch, smoke surrounding it and the driver's door wide open. "Driver must have run off into the woods, no sign of him," Clint said.

"Ah, so he's a coward. Lovely combination."

Steve's voice was steady over the feed. "Natasha, you heard the shots, you saw him; what was he trying to hit when he fired?"

"Bastard was trying to shoot out my tires, I guess," she muttered, one hand on her hip and the other threading back through her hair.

"Yeah, or he was trying to shoot _you_," Clint added, to which he received quite a lovely look from Natasha. "What? It's perfectly logical."

"I don't think you're capable of anything perfectly logical—"

"Oh, that's fresh, Nat; how long did it take you to come up with that one?!"

"Hey, _earth to the old married couple!"_

"What?" Both Clint and Natasha snapped in unanimity.

Tony sighed impatiently. "Why don't the two of you do something productive and see if you can find out how he wrecked, if he even wrecked at all?"

"I can tell you how he wrecked, it's called he picked the wrong person to play cat and mouse with."

Clint had already given up on attempting to argue his point with Natasha, walking around the car and investigating the problem. Nothing seemed amiss; there were no dents or nicks in the car that showed signs of a wreck. Patrolling around to the empty car door, he took a look inside, using the phone in his pocket as a substitute for a flashlight. "Actually," he mused. "I don't think he wrecked at all; looks like whenever Natasha slammed on breaks, this guy swerved, pulled his emergency up and then…well, I think he just jumped out."

Natasha had pulled the hood up, checking underneath with her phone as a flashlight. Coughing, she leaned back after a moment of assessment. "God, he's definitely got a combustion problem. It'd explain the smoke, anyways."

"Okay, so the only problems we see are those that a mechanic could fix," Tony said drily. "I need something that can tell me where he went, not where he ought to go."

"Or why he's a deranged lunatic," Bruce muttered into what was more than likely Steve's line, as he typically didn't want a comm link for himself unless he was doing something other than playing dutiful role of spectator.

"What's the plate number?" Thor said, making his debut appearance over the line. Natasha walked around to behind the Jag, kneeling down so she was at eye level with the plate.

"It's a California," she said. "6-Y-M-Z-8-3-2." Silence spread out over the line except for the sound of rapidly typing fingers, and she slowly stood back up as they waited for a response. Clint had minimal knowledge of how searching for a license plate went; they were waiting on the identification process to finish searching and make a solid match, and then pulling up records of the registrar.

"Huh, interesting," Tony mused, breaking the silence.

"Interesting like a five-thousand dollar prize or interesting like the three headed goat at the fair?" Clint replied.

"Interesting as in that car was reported stolen a few weeks ago."

"Huh," Natasha muttered. "Interesting."

* * *

**And that's that, folks! So basically, we're leading right up into the good ol' stuff, because I refuse to waste time with this bad boy, especially seeing as how this is incredibly long for a first chapter. Also, please keep in mind that I have such a limited knowledge on the whole racing and cars thing; I watch the Furious movies and Street Outlaws on rare occasion, everything else is just my wild imagination and whatever Google and my dad can provide. As well as how the characters work, I'm going to try and keep them as close to their canon personalities as I can but given they're in a different setting, I'm going to play around with that a bit, so don't be too surprised by what I do with these little hellions. I love them to pieces. Anyways, enough of my disclaimer-y self, leave a review on your way out and you might see an update from yours truly very, very soon. For real this time.**


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